By faith, not by taste

Dad is a private contractor, a builder and an improver of things, who lives along Hood Canal. He constructs decks and roofs, garages, does kitchen and bath remodels, flooring, painting, plus a little excavating, tree trimming, and septic work on the side. He has done a bit of everything, and a lot of everything too! While business slows down periodically, he himself rarely does. In fact, I have never known Dad to be without some sort of project in progress — even if it has to do simply with home or vehicle maintenance, or lending a hand to a neighbor. He is a mover, a get-er-done kind of guy. And it is this particular quality, his inner drive and self-motivation, which has left such an impression on both his daughters — my older sister and me.

When Dad came down with COVID-19 late last summer, it had an immediate impact on his energy levels. The body aches and lethargy set in quickly, totally zapping his strength. Thankfully, after a few weeks of rest and home treatment, he began to recover, yet slowly. In place of his characteristic enthusiasm, Dad was more subdued. He needed to rest much more often. It was a season of slowing down, which to those who know him, recognize it is not quite as natural an inclination. I remember Dad’s demeanor during that time though, how even while experiencing pain or discomfort, he had a humble and trustful way about him. It was as if he were not worried, not preoccupied with anything too far beyond his momentary experience. Even as far as his overall health was concerned, he expressed a future-leaning attitude, and the belief that he would be OK.

Some may call it optimism. Many call it faith. That same steadiness of thought and peaceful posture was evident in every conversation I’ve had with him since. Not one to be caught up in the “what-ifs,” Dad embraces the practical present. As soon as he discovered that his sense of smell and taste were conspicuously absent, he just took it as a matter of fact, and not without a good touch of humor. “You know, it’s funny…I can feel the texture, and I remember what it tastes like … but it’s a blank, there’s a hint of something …. sort of sweet” he remarked with wonderment about a piece of fruit. Yet, however lacking in sensation, Dad still made a point of eating well. He’d take a bite of some familiar food, not experiencing the actual flavor of it, but apparently deciding to enjoy it anyway. So the symptoms lingered, and weeks turned into a few months; but because he didn’t make a big deal out of it, I’d nearly forgotten to inquire further.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, Dad was adamant about doing a proper turkey in his new deep fryer. It was just the two of us, but we wanted to celebrate with at least the bare essentials — stuffing, baked yams, my homemade cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie- along with the bird, of course! I watched him assembling the frying contraption, and at one point, it appeared it was missing an important part. In a mild fit of frustration, Dad was about to call it quit … when much to my amusement (but not surprise), the part was found, and the mission proceeded. Set outside on a wooden pallet, the bird bath reached a boil of around 275 degrees Fahrenheit before we lowered the turkey in. For the next hour or so, we convened around it as though an open fire, warming ourselves and checking the thermometer. Finally, when it was done and Dad lifted it out, we had ourselves a perfectly crisp-skinned, and succulent main dish. For first-time fryers, I’d say we definitely deserve some bragging rights.

I carved us up a few nice slices, both of us favoring the dark meat. And to satisfy my craving for a tad of crispness, I grabbed one of the drumsticks too. Sitting down after our long labor, we felt a certain satisfaction, a quiet closeness … and a spirit of thankfulness settled over our humble meal. I watched Dad as he savored each bite on his plate; it was as though his perception was not impaired in the least. I could tell he was enjoying everything just as much as I … and who knows, maybe even slightly more, given our shared effort, overcoming of obstacles and sweet togetherness.

The next time I visited in early January, I came equipped with an old Jamaican folk remedy. I’d seen a video circulating online, which suggested that a specific combination of orange and sugar could help stimulate a lost sense of taste. After watching different people further explain the method, it seemed simple enough…with apparent good results, so I was excited to try it out on Dad. “Hey, wanna try an experiment?!” I’d texted him earlier. He was indeed willing to participate, thus I got it all set up that evening before dinner. First, I took wedges of orange and placed them on a pan on the stove, turning them every so often until they were nicely charred. Next, I coated these in brown sugar, which had a kind of crystallizing effect. Then the moment of truth arrived. We both bit into the hot, juicy sweet morsels — and wow, I was quite impressed! Dad tried a few more, and did say he registered a faintest taste of orange. While it was not quite as miraculous an experiment as I’d hoped, we sure had some fun in the doing of it. Plus, I learned how to make an easy and unique dessert to share with others.

It is early February now, nearly six months since the time when Dad was sick. When last we spoke, he told me how not much else has broken through in his taste buds other than apples or juice, and perhaps milk slightly, as he enjoys having a cold glass around bedtime. “It’s more like a memory (still),” he explained. “It’s not deliberate … but more remote. I get a little bit of sweetness or saltiness, depending on the food, or the heat from (hot) sauce. But I just don’t care that much,” Dad added lightheartedly, “because I know it will come back sooner or later.” While he did admit to wondering about the possibility of it being the latter, it was only as if an afterthought, the vague idea that at some point in the unknowable future, taste would once more be a tangible thing.

I find it encouraging how Dad maintains his wholesome blend of humor and acceptance. I’ve come to appreciate that so much in him. In fact, it occurs to me that somewhere in Dad’s approach to this whole “long-COVID ordeal,” is a rugged nugget to be gleaned. Some wisdom, skill for living well, I think. What else is faith, but a trust in the unseen, the substance of what we hope for? That is how the author of the New Testament book of Hebrews sums it up in the first verse of chapter 11. It is also confidence in a future we cannot know naturally. Precisely because of an inner assurance we do know, supernaturally. When I consider the various trials, or strange circumstances we all must face, it seems a wise approach. Dad’s present challenge involving food is no doubt small in comparison to others that loom much larger in his life, yet the way he has chosen to respond to it represents a broader, deeper part of him. Regardless of taste, he is walking by faith.

■ Sarah, a local Crow, wishes her dad Rodney a very happy birthday!